


The Flower Who Roared

by Rafanay



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, How Do I Tag, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rafanay/pseuds/Rafanay
Summary: Geralt of Rivia and Princess Cirilla of Cintra have been captured by Nilfgaardian forces, one to be hung, the other to be used as a political puppet in an unending war.Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Viscount of Lettenhove and his mother’s only heir, no connection to the aforementioned prisoners, no not a retired bard and certainly never a witcher’s barker, is invited to celebrate Princess Cirilla’s miraculous return to court along with his plus one, a fiancée whom no one has ever heard of....Until now of course.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I've only ever seen the TV series. I've never played the games (though I should) and certainly never read the novels (though I should). Much creative liberty has been taken with this story buffered by many nights on tumblr and Witcher wiki. So, enjoy :)

Jaskier woke to birdsong and sunlight, spreading slow and sweet like drops of honey in his lap.

He was in a chair, a rickety old thing that had survived the trials of his boyhood. His steward had been trying to get rid of it for _years_. It would always make itself back into the fussy little room that used to be his mother’s study, whenever it was tossed outside as kindling.

To be honest, it had become a sort of a game. Henryk, his steward, would make his little put-upon sighs, bristling mustache like a fastidious tabby, and ask Jaskier if he didn’t want a more comfortable chair. Something draped in silk and embroidery and stuffed with cotton. Something more befitting his station.

Jaskier, whose behind, for a good half of his life, the prime years of his life really, had been spent balanced on odd-legged stools, craggy boulders, and if he was lucky, mattresses that sagged only a little in the middle, loved the plain, wood-backed chair. And Henryk knew which side of his bread was buttered. Jaskier would never forgive him if he actually succeeded in getting rid of it.

Well, maybe in due time. He was a generous master after all.

But it was not worth it for Henryk to suffer through jaunty little jigs that would inevitably leak from loose tongues and paint him as a man with a one-inch cock.

Amused with the dirty limericks that filled his head, Jaskier stretched and yawned, scratched at his belly which needed filling. He had slept long at his desk and was suffering for it. His neck was stiff, his back ached and his right knee had locked against his chest—oh the sorrows of age!

Worst of all, sometime in the night, he had taken notes, or drawn idle caricatures, and now it was unrecognizable. There was a giant splotch of ink at the end of a stanza that looked promising but for the life of him, he could not figure if the little stroke was supposed to be an ‘a’ or a ‘g’.

“Eh, I’ll get back to that later.”

He ground a palm into his eyes, shooing sleep. Good thing he had a mind to change the night before. He was in his nightgown. There would be hell to pay if Henryk found out that he’d never gone to bed. This time around, it wouldn’t end with a cup of sweetened tea. Henryk would be wanting to put an apothecary or, Melitele’s tits, a _mage_ in Jaskier’s household.

Best to make haste.

He took a washcloth and swirled it in a basin of perfumed water, dabbing it deliberately under his eyes and mouth as he tugged on the doors of his wardrobe, revealing a riot of colors and sequins, the pink work he had paid good coin for, unfortunate pinwheels, whose popularity did not last long at court, and a ribbon of patterned calico, which Jaskier frowned at, pinned to a dark doublet with powder blue sleeves. The last time he had worn the doublet was in Toussaint, at the Yule ball of Duchess Anna Henrietta. He had not realized that he’d won an admirer.

What a pity, he thought, smoothing a thumb over the saffron and scarlet threads. He dearly wished that he could remember who it was. It might have been Lady Louise of Daevon who had been the most charming conversationalist. Or Daria of Nazair who was fleet of foot despite her frame. Or even Duchess Anna Henrietta herself, seeking companionship as her husband was a year gone. All lovely ladies. All unattainable. 

Jaskier picked out a linen shirt, admiring the blackwork at the collar, and pressed it under his chin, craning his head this way and that against the bit of reflection in the glass window. Then off. On and off.

The weather outside was wonderful. The sun was doing Dana Meadbh’s good work. It was the perfect sort of weather for anything and his feet tingled as though they longed to be on the road again, trapezing over baked clay and swampy earth, the dust and the sand and grass behind the clip-clop of horseshoes.

At once, he felt like dressing up. The shirt was a bit fancy before noon and he was not expecting company. There was no one at the estate to impress. No maids to bat his eyes at nor footmen for easy flirtation. But he was a lord now and a landed gentleman. He would please himself and it would be no one’s business before his for the day was too good to waste sulking and he turned back to the closet, pulling out a shirt with white lace around the throat, light and airy, almost sheer at certain angles, shimmering like a bit of seafoam in his hands. He liked the look of it and sought a doublet to match when Henryk, his steward, alerted by his treacherous footmen and scandalized by his independent thinking, thrust him in front of a mirror and started putting things away.

Jaskier huffed when presented with a pair of breeches to which Henryk commented, “Velvet is still in fashion my lord.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Jaskier threatened.

In the end, they agreed on knee-length breeches in the style of the Tamarian court, orange like a smooth-skinned nectarine, and only a few gold buttons to fumble with. Jaskier chose a doublet, two shades brighter, with butterflies woven on the sleeves and a taffeta collar that secured his throat and shoulder like a miniature cape.

“Will you be going out riding today, my lord?” Henryk asked shrewdly as he clasped a chain around Jaskier’s neck, the Lettenhove coat-of-arms settling neatly at his middle.

“Pfft, where would I go?”

Jaskier eventually escaped Henryk. He managed to wash his face and not have his chin wiped like he was a child. He was a grown man for Melitele’s sake. He had to shave and well—everything!

He ordered, righteously, to have his food brought out to the terrace because it was a warm day, a glorious day, and all too pleasant to spend indoors in a stuffy room surrounded by books and music and curiosities that he normally loved.

The smell of freshly cut grass beckoned to him as did corners of tiny flowers, unfurling their petals one by one. It was nothing like the hills of Dol Blathanna but beautiful all the same. A yellow dandelion, having escaped his gardener’s clever hands and hiding, waved its toothy leaves at him like a cad and a coward, its flower not yet gone to seed. And Jaskier, blinded by the bright sunlight and his head heady with the perfume of warm, spring weather, stepped outside.

A maid, small and mousy and ruddy of face, brought him a kettle of Darjeeling and squares of jam-filled pastries to break his fast. The jam was unusually good and the cook, an exemplary woman, a more generous and virtuous being hereto unknown, had thoughtfully slipped him a small meat pie, which, if his steward had seen, would have taken away and warned him of the dangers of overindulgence and how he was going to end up gross like his cousin Marianna of Emblonia.

Marianna was perfectly lovely. He argued with Henryk inside his head. She was big-boned and soft of chin. She loved her sweets but she was kind with rosy cheeks and had the most beautiful penmanship. Surely that counted for much in their world. Marianna could have been a farm girl with hay twisted in her plaits or a laundress with pruned fingers and be just as happy. He'd be lucky to be like Marianna. 

Jaskier took a knife from his boot which was one of the few concessions his staff had made when he made permanent residence of the family townhouse. He could have used a letter opener but the knife had been a gift and he kept it on him always, tucked in his boot. He used it to carve an apple sometimes. Among other things. Useful thing to have, a knife. 

He picked through his letters one by one. The first was from his cousin Ferrante who started with a sycophantic ‘ _My dearest Julian—_ ‘ before his eyes glazed over and he was forced to put it aside. Ferrante de Lettenhove was a dullard. Jaskier could hardly believe that they were related. His cousin could put a _striga_ to sleep through a cock’s crow.

Still... he was reliable for the going-on in society.

Jaskier pursed his lips. He looked at the letter again and turned it over. Perhaps when he was done with the others. Yes. It would be bad manners just to ignore it. He might have been on the road for more than twenty years, and had he still been on the road, walking alongside his witcher and singing ballads to his woes, he could have simply recused himself by claiming that he never received the letter or that the messenger got eaten by an archgriff. But he had manners, driven into him by a Gesonian nun who was quick to anger and even quicker with a switch.

His hands ached at the thought and he rubbed them. Corporal punishment was barbaric. For one blissful moment, he quite forgot where he was and what he was doing and strewed at the memory of being a ward at the court of Heribert the Quarrelsome among a brood of well-bred would-be gentlemen and gentleladies who became just that.

He angrily stuffed a pastry in his mouth. He would have to ask Henryk to pass on his regards to the kitchen staff or thank them personally next time he snuck in, feeling peckish.

Struck by a thought, he looked over his belly with a critical eye. Was it rounder? Bigger? He wasn’t walking ten leagues a day, carrying a lute on his back.

No, no, no, his life had become dreadfully ordinary.

Of course, he could always set out on another adventure. He had the funds. Crusades were fashionable and perfectly acceptable in the last few dozen years or so. He could enlist. But—he bit his lips. It wasn’t the same.

Adventure equaled danger, he counseled himself. For how many nights had he woken, besieged by bandits who thought two travelers an easy mark to take? He mournfully scribbled a few lines on paper.

_Around your house, now white from frost_

_Sparkles ice on pond and marsh_

_~~Your longing eyes grieve what is lost,~~ _

_~~But naught can change this parting harsh~~ _ ~~.~~

And He struck out the lines one by one. What was the use anyhow? He was _forty_. Long overdue for settling down and begetting heirs if his mother was to be believed. He supposed that he would have to write a letter assuring that he was still in Novigrad and no, he hadn’t wandered off again chasing butterflies.

Jaskier wondered if he didn’t have a bastard somewhere. It would sort out the issue of primogeniture quite nicely. He sighed putting aside a love letter from Baroness Nique which he was frankly terrified of returning. If only he was on the road composing songs, eyes resting on black shoulders as surely as the compass pointed north. 

He groaned and rubbed his face. Idle hands made devil’s work he swore. He needed to focus. It was a warm day. It would be hot once spring withdrew to welcome summer. All the wonderful heat to bask his tired bones.

He had meant to travel to the coast the previous year where the weather was a trifle more agreeable and the air deliciously salty, the waters playful like a kitten rasping on gravel. Perhaps Jaskier would have been lucky enough to find treasure washed ashore. A coin of some sort from a sunken galleon. Or a piece of glass rendered smooth by waves.

Yes it would have been wonderful to have _went_ but for the Countess of Lettenhove who was vetting suitors as though he was a maiden in the first blushes of youth. He had never even seen his suitors. Their names were foreign and tricky on the tongue. His imagination ran wild before deep worry set in. What if she was ugly? What if she looked like Duny—no offense meant to the Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald. But worst of all, what if she was _boring_?

He clicked his tongue. Cintra had fallen, rebuilt, and was newly furnished under Nilfgaardian thumb. There was a handsome reward out for the return of Princess Cirilla, whom, according to Lucienne von Eyegrid, most suspected was already dead. Everyone knew what that meant anyway. Nilfgaard wanted a puppet on the throne for the illusion of legitimacy. As though the Lion Cub of Cintra would submit willingly to the chains of bondage. She was very much like her grandmother that way, strong-willed and stubborn. But he hoped that he didn't take after _too much_ of her grandmother. Pavetta had been a perfectly lovely woman. A little softness wouldn't hurt the girl. They couldn't all be fond of swords and viscera. 

Privately, Jaskier worried. What if Geralt didn’t find her? What if the witcher hadn’t gone back for his child surprise? And scolded himself as foolish in the same breath.

Of course Geralt found her. Geralt was a man opposed to destiny only to find himself a pawn playing straight into her hands.

Back to work. He sighed. His days went by, quicker than could be imagined. Who knew being nobility was such hard work? Even with Henryk at his side, and his accountant, and his solicitor, it was hard to keep track of costs and expenses sometimes.

He was trying to figure out where the services of a chaplain belonged on the ledger when he heard a commotion at the front gates. A young man had leaped off a horse and tumbled to the ground. Jaskier winced. How foolish. He was lucky he did not break his neck. But the boy got up, spry and resilient as all youths wonted, and grabbed Zofia, who was his master of horses after the last one died from being garroted by an overzealous assassin, frantically waving his hands.

Zofia knocked him to the ground and gave him a quick kick in the gut before grabbing his horse by the reins.

“Bad business.” Zofia tutted. “Bad business, poor beast.” At Jaskier’s questioning gaze, Zofia lifted her chin and said indignantly, “The horse is lame m’ lord. It’s small wonder he hasn’t broken down a mile ere.”

The boy flushed.

“It’s an urgent matter.”

Jaskier hummed, paying the boy no mind.

The horse was of good breeding, the color of the sea on a cloudy day. Jaskier wagered that the horse had been the fastest thing in the stable, wherever he had come from. And it was obvious that he had come from afar and much abused for he blew and bled from his nose, neck wet and shiny like newly minted silver.

It was a pity as he was a handsome horse. He had been gelded well. His teeth were good and his almonds eyes marked him intelligent if not for their sunken look. Jaskier whistled to him and the gelding bobbed his head in answer, wiggling his lips around the air.

Jaskier turned to the boy, barely a man, young enough to feel self-important at his given task, and he wondered if he had been like that as well, indifferent to the needs of others, and felt ashamed because in front of him was a boy, just a boy, barely half his age and doing as he was told. And as soon as the boy saw the chains of his office, he folded his knee into a deep bow, his smart cap almost touching the ground like he was royalty.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Yes, come on. Out with it. We haven’t got all day.”

By this point, the household had been made aware of their new visitor and Henryk came barreling out the door, huffing and puffing like a wolf from children’s stories. Some amusing tale about little piglets and the house they built out of straw.

“My name is Iwo of Caelf. Countess de Stael sends me.”

Well then.

He let Iwo squirm in his breeches a little while longer. Despite his most vocal wish, Jaskier sincerely doubted that the countess was in fact, welcoming him back with open arms and little clothes on. He had last seen her at the Yule ball and her demeanor had been cool, deigning only to briefly speak with him regarding the matters of state, Nilfgaard’s attack on Cintra and whether the Lioness could defend her kingdom. He had sung praises of her beauty at the ball and had sadly received little in return.

Now that he thought about it, the bit of calico on his doublet could have been her.

Jaskier was handed a letter sealed with red wax and the Stael coat-of-arms. When he made a motion to put it away, Iwo let out a small groan.

“What?”

“You have been summoned.” The boy stammered. “I need an answer.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows.

In his experience, a countess did not _demand_ answers. She didn’t have to. It was her subject’s duty to inquire if she was in need. To keep a finger on the pulse of society and gently remind her that their services were at her every disposal.

He racked his brain for a missing invitation, a letter, or someone’s birthday he had neglected to answer.

If it was a simple invitation to her estate, she would have given him ample time to prepare and gather a merry band to her liking. As much as it disheartened him to admit, he was not the only bard wandering the fruitful hills and valleys of Redania. He wasn’t even really a bard anymore. He was retired. As much as anyone could be from such a profession.

As he read the letter, he felt his eyebrows climb.

Countess de Stael wanted his presence at the festivities in Oxenfort. Oxenfort was a day’s ride away, less if he was intent on beating his horse. But unless the emperor of Nilfgaard himself was at their doorstep, it was as short a notice as he’d ever gotten. Scowly innkeepers had given him more time to chalk his hands.

The hair on the back of his neck rose and despite the unseasonably warm weather, he felt chilled.

For a moment, Jaskier peeled his eyes away from the events unfolding and looked at his courtyard. He thought it might be nice to install a fountain of some kind. Hire an engineer to have a spring of babbling water in the imagery of the great Pontar which cut through the Northern Kingdoms or little Vda, which was said to hide naiads in her blue-green skirts. A fountain with carvings of scaled mermaids and fierce mares born from thunderstorms. Anything to hide the absence of noise now that he had been given summons and was required to answer.

“This is rather unusual.” Blustered Henryk, the dear fellow. “Surely the countess can wait for preparations. Perhaps a meal?”

But no, that wouldn't do. If he was correct, the Countess would not be the only one waiting for him in Oxenfort. 

“No time like the present. I haven’t been to the festival of Birke in _years_.” Jaskier said at last, cheerfully sheathing his dagger in his boot.

He had politely declined his invitation for this year, as he had done every other year. He could have gone; He had the time but it was a habit at this point. He was only ever at Oxenfort for the winter when the roads were bad and the snow climbed past his heels. “If the countess wishes for my presence in Oxenfort, I am at her command. I am but her humble servant, a slave, worse than a dog really.” He turned to Iwo. “Did she mention anything else?” Because the letter did only say for him to Oxenfort in as few words as allowed by decorum.

“No.” Iwo gulped. He looked around furtively, intimidated by his steward, his household and his pint-sized master of horses. “She only mentioned that you should hurry.”

“But nothing is ready!” Henryk exclaimed. “The carriage has been sent for repairs. Alfons—“ Alfons was his captain of the guards “has taken leave as his wife is about to give birth!”

“Oh, please remind me to send him a gift.”

“You cannot go without your retinue.” Henryk seemed at a loss for words. “It’s simply not done.”

Jaskier winced but said stubbornly, “I am going to Oxenfort, not across the sea into bloody Skellige. Besides, I won’t be a week. Good thing I got dressed this morning.”

“My lord, the Countess will not like it.”

There was only one ‘Countess’ in Henryk’s heart.

“Must you always bring her up when I ought to do something?” Jaskier sighed.

He knew his mother worried. Maybe the twenty-odd years of being on the road planted the grey hairs in her crown. Had he been a better son, he might have felt guilty. Twenty years with Geralt of Rivia were not peaceable years. They were exciting years. They were song-worthy years. But there was one winter he’d been carted to Oxenfort in style, slung like baggage on Roach with a broken leg and the flu in his lungs, Geralt fretting slow in the stoic, witcher way of his.

Geralt had nearly missed the narrow window to den in Kaer Morhen before the mountain pass closed. Jaskier was surprised to find that the memory still made him warm.

“I will be back in a week at most.” He repeated primly. “If mother asks, tell her the truth. The Countess de Stael is, of course, a patron of the arts. It would be a shame if the best Oxenfort had to offer is _Valdo Marx_. You remember Valdo don’t you Henryk?”

Henryk sighed.

“I shall have the most terrible time. The Countess has found another muse, a plaything really, younger than me but not as good looking I don’t think. I will be surrounded by a bunch of old men patting themselves on the back for her patronage and if I am lucky, my darling Precilla will be there to distract me. Don’t tell mother Henryk, I will be back before she knows it. And before I forget, find me a mason. And a carpenter.”

“Whatever for?” Henryk asked wearily.

“I want a fountain, installed over there.” He waved in the vague direction of where he envisioned the masterpiece. “I want to get started as soon as I get back.”

♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘♘

Elsewhere, Yennefer of Vengerberg woke with the ashes of the Nilfgaardian army on her tongue and choked, her hands curling into the scratchy bedsheet of the most pedestrian hell her mind could conjure up as she scrabbled for the chaos in her she hadn’t known was missing until it was _gone_.

“Stop, _stop_ , Yennefer, you are safe.”

Yennefer fought Triss for there was no safe. She felt like a big, fat pudding drenched in melted toffee and where was her magic?!

“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed, foolish girl.” Tissaia said as she glided into view, hands clasped neatly beneath her ribs. Yennefer relaxed for Tissaia was never the one to mince words and she didn’t think that the former Rectoress of Aretuza would lie about her entire point of being. "Now calm down and let Triss do her work." 

“Did it work?” She croaked.

Her gaze softened, briefly. “You did well. Now listen up. Much has happened while you were asleep.”


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Jaskier compromised as all good leaders did. As nobility, he couldn’t expect to travel without a retinue. He might as well ask the bandits to mug him. Immediately. He could get lost. His horse could break a leg. He could starve.

And all the while, the countess would expect him at his best.

So while Iwo was politely told that there were no horses available for his return journey—perhaps he could go on foot?—Jaskier packed. Or Henryk packed while he unpacked.

He took out the brocade overgown and fur-lined jerkin because he was going for a week, tops, well, he could always use an extra shirt for luck, silk slippers since he had a perfectly good pair of boots, coin, Oxenfort owed him his last paycheck, and squabbled over how many fruit pastries a man can fit in his pockets.

And as he saddled a hunter, sort of dusty and yellowy in color with an anvil for a head, truly an ugly specimen of a horse, he told Henryk, “Do not tell my mother. You shouldn’t bother her so needlessly.”

“I fear that you’ve given me less than satisfactory reasons to hold my tongue.” Henryk replied with cheek.

Jaskier scowled.

“Pox on your tongue Henryk, must you be so sour? I pay you for Melitele’s sake.”

“Yes my lord.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the easy agreement.

“Don’t touch my chair.”

Henryk hid a small smile under his mustache.

“Wouldn’t dream of it my lord.”

“Good, good.” He said finally, unable to find anything amiss. “Very well then, I will be back in a week. Don’t wait up. Find me a good mason and a carpenter. I want my fountain!”

Jaskier left Novigrad accompanied by two men, two guardsmen whom Henryk had picked out personally after the battle of pastries. He filled the silence with inane chatter but the guards, perhaps forewarned or all-too perceptive for their own good, passed a wary look between themselves and suggested that Jaskier might like to save his voice.

“Well!” He huffed. “Is that criticism I hear about my voice? I will have you know that I am a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts in Oxenfort. You sir, have just insulted my livelihood! Go on,” he snapped at Teodor who was the younger of the pair and easily baited. “Tell me about my singing, three words or less.” And he nearly bit his tongue in two.

Jaskier’s hand leapt to his throat. He never fully recovered from Geralt’s wish. The sorceress had done surprisingly good work. He had no scars from his brush with the djinn but he swore that he could feel a bump, a raised line from ear to ear under his jaw. In the mornings, if frost had taken root on the glass panes of his window or when the fire in his hearth had burned down to coals, his throat would be tender as though something had torn inside.

He had taken to wearing a scarf, sometimes, made of the finest Cidarian sea silk. He had had no need of it while traveling with Geralt. Despite the witcher’s roughness, Jaskier knew he was in safe keeping. But ever since they had parted ways, he had grown a habit of keeping his neck covered. He admitted that it was a personal failing. Teodor and Emil were fine men.

They continued, quieter, at a brisk pace. They took supper on horseback like the nomadic desert tribes of Korath and stopped only to water the horses or to relieve themselves. When true night fell, not even torches piercing the black veil of night, they found a clearing off the beaten path and set up camp, stoking a fire large enough to ward off wild animals but small so that they could smother it quickly should bandits happened upon them.

Jaskier felt driven to nostalgic tears as he sat in the rough clay. Emil handed him a mug of sweetened tea to which he turned his nose up at, mollified only when Teodor took out a crust of bread and jam.

“For you m’lord.” Teodor stuttered in his low, country twang of his. “The cook said it was your favorite.” 

“Teodor,” Jaskier said, “You are now my favorite.”

Teodor also caught an entire nest of squirrels, stuffed to the gills with new greens, to be spit over the fire.

“Grew up in the country with five sisters.” Teodor explained, breaking under Jaskier’s scrutiny. “Lots of mouth to feed. Learned to trap when I was young.”

“Where are your sisters now?” Jaskier asked between bites of charred squirrel.

“Married, all of them except the eldest. Teresa, she’s the youngest, her husband is the cook’s cousin. He got me a job here.”

“How are you liking Novigrad so far?”

“It’s alright.” Teodor said quietly, “I miss my family.”

Jaskier gave him a fond pat on the back. Teodor flinched and Jaskier discreetly took his hand back, making it look as though he had meant to brush a pesky bug off his shoulders.

“You should take some time off and visit. Perhaps after this bit of business.” Jaskier perked up. “You gentlemen are in for a treat. The Festival of Birke is no small fête. The food, the music! The most talented of Redania, except Valdo Marx, may an ox spontaneously unman him—“ to this, Emil and Tedoro both grimaced visibly. “—will gather to welcome spring!” 

“Er, yes m’lord.”

Jaskier laughed.

“So formal!”

The trio stayed at the makeshift camp until daybreak. Once they could see more than a foot in front of their hands, they set off.

They made good time. It was early supper by the time they arrived at Oxenfurt. The sun was still in the sky and their horses were in good condition.

“Ah Oxenfurt, I missed you so.”

Jaskier blew a kiss at the guardhouse, where a guard threw a crisp salute instead of half-eaten fruit. Family names had their uses. The guard had probably seen worse from Oxenfurt’s students. Certainly, he had done worse when he was a student at the Academy.

Emil dismounted to check the horses’ legs and found them sound. Jaskier shushed his mount when she began to fidget, rubbed her dark nose and blew in her feathered ears. His hunter, unimpressed, checked him on the hip and he laughed, delighted by her character even as Emil’s face drew to a grimace.

It felt odd, handing over the reins to a stable boy. Jaskier was used to walking into the stables himself to see that Roach was given a fair stall and not be maligned for being a witcher’s horse.

He thinned his lips. The mind was a tricky place, he thought. He had gone entire months without thinking of his erstwhile friend and now it seemed that every blade of grass and turn of stone seem to remind him of Geralt.

No one had ever accused Jaskier of a greater destiny than the one born in blood. Being a viscount was no small thing. He did not tempt fate and he did not flirt with destiny.

But had he been a religious man, say a pious man—and to wit, Jaskier admitted privately he was none of these things. He was merely a historian orbiting those who had power and wielded it ruthlessly. His wallet had often been too light in his youth to make a proper gambler of him. Why bet on bear baiting when the coin could just as easily be used to fill his belly?—but if he hadn’t known any better, he might have said that the entire business had the greasy smears of Destiny’s big, fat fingerprints all over it.

“You’ll have to stay at the inn I’m afraid.” Jaskier said loftily, nodding towards Three Little Bells. “The guest houses at the Academy will no doubt be full. Here,” He tossed Emil a bag of coins. “This should cover your rooms and supper.”

“But what about you, m’lord?”

He straightened his cloak. He hoped he looked presentable. Yellow was in fashion again. The kind that reminded him of his namesake. But Jaskier could never wear the color himself for it made him look washed out and gravely ill. He went over his doublet and breeches with a critical eye and loosened two buttons at the collar. 

“I will take my supper with the Countess of course.”

The lie rolled easily off his tongue. It wasn’t even really a lie.

“Yes my lord.” Emil saluted.

“Have a goodnight m’lord.”

“No,” Jaskier said quietly to himself as he left. “I don’t think I will.”

Early spring in Oxenfurt was a bore. It was cold and dreary and the roads were wet. Some people practiced truly appalling hygiene and every now and then, a servant, a maid, or an unmarried daughter, couldn’t be bothered to bring refuse down to the gutters where it belonged, and instead would dump it out the window, hitting whatever unfortunate passerby there might have been below.

Jaskier, who in his first year of college, weak to drink and even weaker to suggestions of mischief, had fallen prey many a times. He hoped, or rather his mother did, bless her soul for having nothing to pin her hopes on but his very best behavior, age lent weight to dignity. But he could only be so dignified if he had horse dung on his shoes.

In hindsight, he thought he should have thought the entire baby-making business through. Though he loathed to admit, perhaps dear Yennefer, she would probably skin him alive if she ever peered into his eyes and read him think of her thus, had a point.

As Jaskier passed a rowdy group, its ringleader gesturing wildly at a girl with a mop of thick black curls, he filched a waterskin and took a sip.

And immediately spat it back out.

Disgusting.

Any student worth their salt brewed their own beer. It promoted creativity and rot gut and soothed his frazzled nerves. He chided himself as he took another swallow. He was seeking audience with Countess de Stael. It was certainly no worse than playing a concerto in front of the entire faculty for his finals.

The truth of the matter was that he knew why Henryk worried. He knew why his mother worried. Aside from the fact that he was the her only heir, cousin Ferrant notwithstanding, not only had he spent the last twenty years or so in a witcher’s company—and in his defense, on and off, he never once forgot to write, not even when a ghoul had taken a nasty chunk out of his arm and he’d been laid up for a month with blood poisoning. Nasty business that—He had been working.

In his mother’s words, and he could still hear the disdain in her voice for thinking it and saying it out loud, viscounts did not work. But he had been fairly short on coin when he first started out as a bard. Sigismund offered him a handsome bag of coins up front and a sponsorship. What was an aspiring musician to do?

The seventeen-year-old Jaskier should have swallowed his pride and asked his mother for pocket change.

Everyone knew that bards at court were spies. Bards on the road could be anything. They could be kind, they could be cunning, they could be jolly and they could be benign. They shared news on the road and became a fabric of life. They sowed dissent, fabricated scandals, plucked at a man’s heart like lute strings, and raised armies for battles and wars boys had no business in.

The guards posted behind the doors leading to the vice-chancellor’s office blustered his objection as Jaskier whirled past. Jaskier supposed that he had been busy cleaning the pipes so to speak. Appalling, truly, out in the open where everyone could see him!

He would have to lodge a complaint with the vice-chancellor before he left. But it was not the vice-chancellor’s office he sought as he walked past the door. Nor did he stop when the guard told him to, heaving grossly as he waddled after Jaskier’s muddy footprints.

Jaskier held a singular goal in mind.

At the bottom of a staircase, three men were hunched over a cramped table, trading cards over a stack of coins. He recognized them at once. Jan, broad-shouldered with an ever-expanding gut, was sitting with his back to the hallway and Jaskier glimpsed at once that he had the winning hand. The bastard was drawing the game out for a lark.

The second man, Robert Pilch, his head as smooth as a boiled egg, spotted him and dropped his hand to a dagger at his waist.

“I win.” Jan declared, distracting him.

The third man spat off to the side and threw his cards on the table.

“Julian.” He leered, turning his head. “It’s been a while.”

“That’s Viscount Lettenhove to you, Oreste.” Jaskier said haughtily.

“Not here, you ain’t.” Jan scratched wax from his ears with his pinky and Jaskier shuddered in disgust, flattening himself against the wall, as far away from the man as possible. It didn’t mean much as the hallway was narrow and he was within easy grabbing distance of everyone.

“Say,” Jan gestured to the waterskin in his hand. “What you’ve got there?”

Jaskier emptied his bottle to spite the other man. Instead of being offended, Jan broke out into a sort of baying laughter and slapped his leg. “That’ll put the hair on your chest eh, Julian? Maybe now, less people will mistake you for a lass.”

“Well I never!” Jaskier gasped.

“Now, now.” Robert said hastily, flattening his knife hand on the table as a gesture of peace. “Did you need something Julian?”

After shooting Jan a glare that would have killed a lesser man, had he been a mage or a sorceress or even a hedge witch, Jaskier answered, “I have been invited.” With as much dignity as he could muster at the filthy, filthy glint in Jan Lennep’s eyes. “By Countess de Stael. I assume she has a quest for me.”

At once, the easy humor in the men’s faces evaporated like a patch of snow under a parched sun.

“Oh aye,” Oreste said, reshuffling the cards and offering no more.

“I don’t suppose you three gentlemen could tell me what’s going on?” Jaskier wheedled.

“Above our paygrade, little blossom.” Jan replied as his fingers toppled a tower of silvers. Robert swallowed and watched hungrily. Jaskier made a mental note. He had better keep a closer eye on that one.

So everyone knew something but they weren’t talking. Wonderful. He should have sought out Pricilla first. That was the smart move. She would have told him because she was a decent human being.

“Thank you ever so much for your assistance.” Jaskier said insincerely.

Oreste jabbed his hip with an elbow.

“Not worth our necks Julian, you know how it is.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jaskier sneered.

Jan wiggled his fingers in farewell.

“Come find me later, Julian.”

“I’d rather hang.” Jaskier snapped and Jan and Oreste erupted into laughter, punctuated by Robert’s nervy giggling.

Jaskier belatedly cursed his fourteen-year-old self for lacking any sort of self-control and being lead easily by anyone who was willing to touch his cock. The good thing was that there was no one else further up the stairs. Three men were already overkill. Sigismund must have asked for them personally.

He stopped and rubbed at his temples. He found that he was already longing for the monotony of home. There was something comforting about routine. About control. He supposed that was why kings and emperors waged entire wars on the matter.

“I am getting old.” He told himself. “I will be heading straight to bed once I’ve sorted this out. Perhaps the Countess won’t mind that I appear in hers.”

But it had been the Countess who had summoned him. Not to her estate which was far, far away in Kovir, but to the Academy at Oxenfurt, above the vice-chancellor’s office in the little wing he liked to call the Faculty of Comparative Spying and Applied Espionage. He doubted that he would be as eager to join her in bed once he listened to her request.

Jaskier knew at once that the Countess would not be in the guest rooms. Countess de Stael was an educated woman. The sort of a woman who would entertain guests as easily as she would sit astride a horse and go into battle. War rooms suited her better. She had always preferred to receive visitors in her salon, the greatest minds of the Northern Kingdoms all in one room, at her beck and call, to debate and trade barbs with.

Sigismund often had to beg her to stop using the auditorium where her voice carried because of spies for there were many in Oxenfurt, all young and pretty and vicious with a knife.

Jaskier walked into the long galley where he found the Countess engaged in a conversation with another man. Immediately, he straightened his shoulders and puffed up his chest. Though the Countess did not deign to look at him at once, she paused, only briefly in mid-conversation, to let him know that she knew he was there.

It was all the more pity because he found himself distracted by the soft skin of her arms and the swoop of her back, the frills of her taffeta gown as they rippled down and swept across the stone floor.

The Countess wore the most becoming shade of blue, so dark that it appeared as though she was wearing the night itself against the candle light, and if he had to guess, Temerian in cut and design. Very flattering. A bodice latticed with silver ribbons up the front framed her breasts most sumptuously.

Jaskier sighed with feeling. He thought he might have been in love. He thought he might swoon. He thought he might be content with the Countess as his muse. No more danger, no more draugirs, or drowners who liked to wrap their sticky, webbed fingers on a man when he was at his most vulnerable, no more squabbling elves in their palaces of ruin, no more cuckolds—well.

Countess de Stael was not born a countess. She married into the title but it suited her well. She was gently born and was renowned for her rapier wit and her support of the monarchy before the fortuitous match. It was commonly said that she could have been named the Lord Chancellor if only she had been a man.

She had a finger in every pie as far as the Northern Kingdoms were concerned. No children were betrothed without her knowledge. No bricks were stacked nor mages assigned without her guiding hand in it. And she had gotten very wealthy off of her politicking.

She and her husband never had issue. Good thing since Jaskier knew off hand how many would eagerly accuse her of putting a cuckoo chick in an honest man’s nest.

A boring man, he thought privately. A man who could not appreciate the finer things in life.

Jaskier fancied marrying her once. He was a viscount. His grandfather wasn’t likely to give up the ghost in the near future but it was not so much a leap that a viscount be allowed to marry a countess of her standing.

On that matter, his mother had said—“She is a clever girl but she is young. Darling, there are no greater fools than passionate young girls.”

Sadly, it was all moot point. Countess de Stael was a patron of the arts at the Academy. Her interest in him had waned to scholarly pursuits. Her lover was also happened to be the head of the Redanian Secret Service.

Eventually, Countess de Stael waved her guest away with a tired frown. The man, a brooding hulk with hands the size of encyclopedias, turned his squat nose up at Jaskier with a huff.

Jaskier sniffed himself discreetly.

He didn’t smell bad. He smelled like hard travel, a bit of horse, a bit of sweat, a little bit of this and that. None of which couldn’t be fixed with a nice, hot bath.

Jaskier shot the man a glare. He could not place the paunchy face. But he did recognize the chain of office. A circle with a gavel carved in the middle. An auction house worker—one of the Borsodi clan if he had to take a guess. The Countess had expensive and often exotic tastes.

“Julian,” The Countess sighed as though noticing him for the first time. She held out her hand to him, enveloping him in a perfume of rosewater and oil. “Oh look at you, you look ghastly. Novinian food must not agree with you.”

“All is well now that I have seen you my lady.” Jaskier simpered as he bent one knee. “I am delighted to see that I have not been forgotten. You were so cold to me the year past. I feared that I must have fallen out of favor.”

“Oh dear,” the Countess tutted. “You must not be cross with me for what happened at Yule, Julian. I could not be forward for the Duchess of Toussaint is a great friend of mine and I can’t have her green-eyed before the weather warmed.”

He bowed low, almost as though she was princess royal.

“I am but a humble man. If my lady finds me lacking, I shant bother you longer.”

“Julian, I shall _die_ if you take offence.” She cooed.

“Not at all.” He denied. “How could anyone feel but awe at your vision?”

He was laying it on a bit thick but he’d always had a soft spot for powerful women.

And what a woman. The Countess was no longer a blushing bride, bright eyed and newly come to court but a woman grown. A woman who had tasted pleasures and craved it. A woman who had come into power.

Jaskier shivered when she laid a hand on his cheek, a thumb rubbing gently at the imaginary spot of dirt under his eyes. If she was a goddess, he would have been happy to lay at her feet. He kissed the back of her hand, taking the shallow dimples of her apple-round cheeks as a reward.

He let himself fall back into the courtly routine. The journey had been the furthest he’d been away from Novigrad since he had settled at the townhouse and it raked up longing inside of him something horrid as though somebody had struck hot iron between his ribs. While no doubt this was not a social call, the Countess was hardly an unwelcome task.

He kept his eyes low against the hearth, knowing that the light in his eyes would catch fire like an oil-soaked rag and burn amber. It was a harmless enough trick against lovers with appetites for adventures. He was tall. The long treks on foot had strengthened his bones and put meat on his naturally lanky frame. He knew he was fair-looking if not handsome. Certainly, he wasn’t ugly. He had a few wrinkles but he had been told he looked young for his age.

“I am your servant.” He confessed and kissed the ruby ring on her hand. She laughed and pulled him to his feet with a surprisingly firm grip. “If you wish for me to change, I shall. My lady merely has to command. Woof, woof.”

“Oh stop. Come sit with me. You really _do_ look pale. I can’t have you coming down with anything before your grand performance.”

“I have no idea what it could be.” Jaskier said cheerfully. “Had I known that you were in attendance, I would have prepared a string quartet and an endless concert so that you could hear the music in your dreams. But your servant told me to hurry so here I am.”

The Countess hummed in response.

“Shall I order something for you? A cut of meat? Some mulled wine?”

“Hunger does not exist when you are near. I need no further sustenance.” He demurred but went willingly enough when pushed into a chaise longue with a gilt frame and satin cushions that threatened to swallow him whole.

He did not resist when a crystal goblet was pressed into his palms, filled with wine redder than blood, as old as the foundations of the Academy, and when the Countess wedged a piece of candied fruit between his lips, he gladly took it in his mouth—one did not object to such things—which went down his throat about as well as a rock thrown in the middle of the pond, making his heart race and his stomach cramp as though he had been poisoned.

Goddesses were jealous creatures after all but it was only him and his imagination, no other. He felt marginally better as he drank. The alcohol loosened his bones and the Countess curled his hair into brassy ringlets around her soft hands, over and over, oddly intimate for a woman who had banished him from Redania while she pursued another. 

“I shall dedicate a song to you.” Jaskier said before the thought made him laugh. “Something for you and no other. Something for my lady in blue.”

The Countess let go. He mourned the loss of her touch and poured himself another glass.

“I should think that you would be busy composing for the Redanian army.”

“Why? There is no romance in a bunch of soldiers playing gwent.”

“Dust off your lute Julian, a war is coming.”

“Against whom?”

“Nilfgaard.”

He schooled his expression into one of disinterest. Secluded in Novigrad, Jaskier liked to pretend to let the world pass him by. The Lioness of Cintra had fallen, dead before Nilfgaard could take what she held dear. But Geralt, despite his many, many, many, many failings that he couldn’t possibly fit on both hands, was a good man. He must have returned for his child surprise when he heard Nilfgaard’s army march north.

Jaskier absentmindedly reached out for a crystalized orange peel and a handful of nuts. The Countess detested people speaking with their mouths full. A distraction was needed.

“They have Cintra but little else to show for their campaign. We will have to deal with a half-wit puppet-king if one of suitable blood can be found or a steward who has offended the _Imperator_ one too many times.”

“My dearest Julian,” The Countess interrupted. “You are... rather behind the news. Nilfgaard already has Princess Cirilla.”

He did not choke on a piece of chestnut. He chewed calmly through watering eyes and said, “I see." He cleared his throat. "Are we to raise armies then?”

“Don’t be silly.” The Countess chuckled, turning her back against the fire. “Why would I need armies when I have you?”

Said the woman with armies at her beck and call. Jaskier hummed under his breath.

“You give me much credit my lady. But Lettenhove is only a small county and much of its wealth is regrettably tied up in my mother’s name.”

“Oh Julian,” Countess de Stael said gently. “I do not need an _army_ to save the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

“I am just one man.” Jaskier protested.

“In this instance, one is enough.”

“Where would you even take her?” He asked out loud. His mind whirled, discarding one plan after another. He didn’t believe her; he couldn’t believe her. But the Countess would not lie to him. Not about this. He trusted Geralt. He believed in him. Geralt would have kept his child surprise safe. “It will be the Seven Years’ War all over again. Not all of north are opposed to Nilfgaardian rule.” He stopped himself short. “You expect traitors.”

The Countess opened her hands wide.

“Surely you don’t think that the Princess will be safe in Nilfgaard?”

“We cannot hope to restore her to her throne.” He said dubiously.

“No, not now.” The Countess agreed. “But if she has an ounce of her grandmother’s strength, she will be a good queen. She must be brought up in the proper way of course. Our way. Nilfgaard has overextended itself this time. It treats its vassal states like chattel and wonder why they rebel.” 

The Countess wrung her fingers. Not lady-like at all. The repetitive motion reminded him of an old woman sitting by the fire, cracking open nuts for her toothless gums. But instead of hulled beechnut shells, she rubbed her rings over and over, putting shine to the gold, the rubies and the winking diamonds. It was an unexpectedly vulnerable moment for her and he could not help but stand, to go to her, not to touch her, never, for that was untoward. He simply stood close enough that they could feel the heat of each other’s skin.

“Nilfgaard will falter and when it does, we will restore the Princess to her rightful throne.”

“It’s as my lady says.”

Countess de Stael would trade Princess Cirilla for the safety of the Northern Kingdoms. He, as its agent, had to obey.

The Countess looked at him with a thinly disguised gratitude.

“You must go to Cintra. I would go myself but they would never let me within three miles of the castle. Too much of a scandal I’m afraid.” The Countess said as though the scandals were not of her making. “It must be you. You are our most loyal agent.”

“And titled.” Jaskier added on. “And handsome, and young, and alone.”

“You will not be alone.” The Countess frowned. “I would never do that to you.” Turning her head, she called, “Philippa, dear, do come closer. We can hardly see you.”

Jaskier very purposefully did not lunge for his knife.

Philippa Eilhart was a severe woman of an undeterminable age. She had dark eyes and ruddy skin, a good bone structure and a generous layer of freckles over her cheeks. In daylight, she could have passed for a laundrywoman, a shepherd or a farmer’s wife. Her hair had been tied in haste, a vicious snarl down one shoulder. The robes she wore clearly did not belong to her. They billowed with every step she took, meant for a man with a considerable amount of girth. And through the arms of her robes, he saw pinked calico sleeves. The very same pattern that rested in his closet in Novigrad.

The Countess said graciously, “Allow me to introduce you to Philippa Eilhart. King Vizimir’s very own mage.”

Jaskier held a hand out with a flourish, back bent at an angle appropriate for a court mage. They had never been acquainted but he knew of her. Every nobility in Redania lived in fear of her.

“My lady, I am Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. I regret that we could not meet in a more fortuitous circumstance. But I see as my lady Countess assures me, I am in good keeping.”

“ _Him_.” Philippa said scornfully, eyes flitting up and down once like the crack of a whip. Jaskier was instantly smitten. After the hard-knock lessons at Heribert’s court, her anger felt like mere raindrops in spring. He really did adore unattainable women. “You want me to work with a boy whose balls have barely dropped?”

“He is adequate.” The Countess tutted.

“Begging your pardon.” Jaskier said indignantly, not meaning a single word. “I am more than just adequate and the state of my balls is certainly none of your business.”

The Countess clasped her hand together with a gurgle of laughter. 

“You two will get along splendidly.”

Jaskier and Philippa shared a look. Melitele’s left tit, politics sucked sometimes.

“I must retire for the night.” I promised Sigge that I would accompany him for morning prayers.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. He would sooner believe Geralt grow a sense of humor before Sigismund set a willing foot in a temple.

“I am happy the future of our country is in your capable hands.” The Countess said.

“Of course, my lady.” Jaskier responded after a pause.

He waited for the Countess’ footsteps to fade before rounding on Philippa.

“It was you!” He said in a manner of greeting. “You gave me the ribbon! I wondered. Even if I was three sheets to the wind, I would have remembered the maiden who had given me her favor.”

Jaskier was babbling. He knew mages could read minds. He didn’t dare look away. He wanted her to see into his eyes; Let her see the jumble of words, notes and chaos.

Philippa crossed her arms.

“Why didn’t you ask the Countess?”

“Because she is as smart as she is sexy.” Jaskier answered promptly. “I’ve been with powerful women before. I’ve been with her before. I’m only in danger of dying with you. The Countess would utterly ruin me.”

“What a clever bird you are.”

“Well, I was at the top of my class.” He said modestly.

Philippa’s teeth shone against the fire. She was by no means a small woman. The shadows across her face cast her in the mold of a wolf, of a woman, an owl, uncanny and utterly alien. His mind could not reconcile what he saw so he did not try. Mentally, he backtracked, wondering perhaps that he _had_ fallen out of favor with Countess de Stael.

“May I...” He faltered and looked around. Where was a window when he needed one? It wouldn’t have been the first time he had to shimmy down vines to escape an angry father, a husband or a wife. A mage was a first. He caught sight of a butter knife and a comb. “...brush your hair?”

Philippa seemed surprised at his offer. He was surprised. He might as well have found a kikimore to pet and expect to escape with all four limbs intact.

Her hand caught the black tangle, tugged once and fell at her hip.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Very well.” She sighed. “You may.”

He worked fast. He led her to the chaise longue with its silk cover and embellishments. He pulled her hair loose, privately relieved that everything was in good order, she just seemed to have been in a hurry, and parted it down the back, fingers warming to the familiar exercise of grooming the reluctant.

“So why do we need to rescue the Princess? I suppose we must get around to it eventually. But Nilfgaard wouldn’t dare harm a single hair on her head. They need her. She’s not likely to listen to the emperor’s seneschal or even the sun priests any time soon. What a dreary place it must be. The dye spent on their armor must cost a fortune!”

“Tell me.” Philippa interrupted. “How does a nobleman like yourself sign away his soul to the Redanian Secret Service?”

“Souls are so medieval.” Jaskier dismissed. “You should know Sigismund prefers to lend you money and charge exorbitant interests.”

“So much that Rowan could not pay for the safe return of its heir?”

Jaskier felt his grin pale.

“The Countess told me the most riveting story while we were abed last night.” Philippa said viciously. “I’ve heard of your name in passing. Viscount Lettenhove. I thought you’d be a boor pushed down to the country for a scandal or another.”

“My lady does me... much credit.”

“Imagine my surprise when I heard that the Countess had you in her pockets. Most heirs like to keep a hand in their purse. You, on the other hand, kept interesting company.”

“Not willingly, I assure you.” Jaskier said, trying to figure out where it was all going.

She continued.

“It is like you said. You are young. You are titled. Too high in rank to rub elbows with the baronets but not enough to be a threat to an earl or a marquis. You are like a pretty pebble, found and just as easily discarded. Like how the witcher left you.”

“It’s true.” Jaskier conceded without missing a beat. He decided on a braid, a simple plait. He had no brush, no comb, no oils, or pins or clips to put up her hair. Somehow, he doubted that she would let him go if he asked. He pulled up a chair and went to work. “We traveled together for a bit but I was never his confidant. The honor belonged to another.”

“Then you are a better prospect than I could have imagined.” Philippa smirked. “A witcher is still more man than a creature. He cannot say things he doesn’t know. If he never trusted you, he cannot betray you.”

It hurt. She might as well have stabbed him and twisted the blade a little, he thought with a touch of bitterness. It had been ten years since he last saw the witcher and the events of their parting still throbbed like an old wound.

But he had not survived his stint as a bard to let mere _words_ stop him. He rubbed her neck, thumbs pressed against the base of her skull. She let out a satisfied moan, loud enough that it made him raise his eyebrows. Jaskier was a miracle worker but he didn’t think he was that _good_. What was he saying?—he was great. He was the best.

He leaned in and repeated, “But why do _you_ need her?”

There was a moment he feared that she hadn’t heard him. He cleared his throat when the witch said slowly, “There was a prophesy.”

“Ah,” He rocked back on his heels. “That old bit about the sword and the axe. Something about Elder Blood?”

“You jest but the time comes.” Philippa said, sour as an old cat. “You can walk across the sea in Kovir in winter. A hundred years ago, sunflowers grew in Talgar. Snow did not fall so hard in Toussaint.”

“Snow melts. It does that. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” He said lightly. 

“Not to you.” She pointed out. “You will live but a handful of years. Longer if the Redanian Secret Service cuts you loose.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.” He grumbled. 

“I was here long before your family was a tickle in your ancestor’s balls.”

Jaskier frowned, tying off Philippa’s braid.

“Well that’s a little graphic.”

“Your grandfather the duke knew me when he was a child learning at his mother’s knees. I have seen Ithlinne’s prophesy portend the future. Know this, this world will end.”

Philippa shook him off and her braid fell neat to the middle of her back.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet.

“Why would the elves foretell their own demise?” He asked. “Seems counterintuitive somehow. It’s almost like they’re asking for it.”

“You cannot avoid destiny.” Philippa replied provocatively. “Ithlinne foretold that the world will be destroyed by ice and all humans will die. I believe different.”

“You think Princess Cirilla has Elder Blood.” Jaskier guessed.

It wasn’t hard. There were many at Pavetta’s disastrous betrothal. 

“Why not? Calanthe was a bitch and a half but she did... great things.”

“Great things.” Jaskier echoed. Poor Princess Cirilla! So many desired her for their own devilish purposes. The Countess wanted to use the Princess as a bulwark against Nilfgaard. And it appeared that the witch wished to become a kingmaker.

“There are easier ways to go.” Jaskier reminded her casually. “The Service will behead you for less. Send you to Drakenborg if you piss them off.”

“Are you afraid for me?” Philippa asked idly, straightening the sleeves down her arm.

“My lady.” Jaskier chuckled. “I am afraid for myself. You are speaking treason.”

“Not yet. Sigismund owes me a favor you see. It will not matter to him to whom the Princess goes, only that she not be left in Nilfgaard’s clutches.”

Jaskier held his breath.

And let it out.

“How did they capture her? She was with Ger—the _witcher_. How did Nilfgaard take her?”

The witch’s expression crumpled in displeasure. She replied in a halting voice at first, oddly hesitant before it grew to fill the room. Jaskier clenched his teeth and prayed to Melitele, Kreve, the Eternal Fire and even the Great Sun if it meant that there was no one else hiding in shadowy corners, waiting to drop in.

“They were on foot, not far outside Cintra. The witcher fought. But they subdued him quickly.”

Meaning Geralt might not even be able to walk. Lovely. He was in a bind. He needed an ally. Someone who would _want_ to rescue Geralt.

The polite thing would be to send a letter. He didn’t know how he could send a letter. How would a pigeon go about finding a witch who could portal herself away to the other end of the continent with a snap of her fingers?

The letter itself was easy enough. He could do it in his sleep. Fill it to the brim with flattery and purple prose until the pages ran black from ink. His fingers itched just thinking about it. He wanted his lute. What a song this would make. The heroic rescue of the Lion Cub.

He would be thrilled if he hadn’t been burning wax trying to plot a rough draft of a plan that wouldn’t get them all killed. He thought of favors he could pull. No, he couldn’t do this alone. He assessed Philippa with a passing glance. He had her trust, as limited a leash as it was, and the backing of the Redanian Secret Service. It wouldn’t be unusual if he was seen visiting a mutual ally. But he hadn’t quite forgiven Yennefer for the crack at his age and Geralt was regrettably short on time.

“I will need a few things.”

He waited. It didn’t take too long. It never did. The failings of Aretuza was institutional. It demanded that its students be at their sponsor’s beck and call. Even if it was a lowly bard like him. 

Philippa, sure that he was on her side, said, “Name them.”


End file.
